


In Which Clothes Get Disrespected

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Snippets in Time [3]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Sexy Times, blatant disregard for fashion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place the day after the acquaintance with d'Artagnan is made. Porthos is in excellent spirits.  Athos is being nonchalant.  Aramis is profoundly jealous.  They do what they must.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Clothes Get Disrespected

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in March 2010.

 

            The morning after the debauchery that followed what amounted to a complete obliteration, at least in the opinion of Porthos, of their sworn nemeses, the three friends met, as was habitual, in the apartment of Athos.  Their host, despite looking a bit bluer in the face than usual, was in good spirits, notwithstanding his wound, which was still bleeding the previous day. 

            “Well, I’ll be damned if the Gascon’s ointment isn’t already working!” declared Porthos, upon seeing his friend, and giving him a not-so-gentle shove in a way of affection.

            Athos rotated his shoulder and tilted his head, as if to listen to the sounds of his body obeying him, and acknowledged Porthos’ statement with a nonchalant “Hmm”.  He then proceeded directly to filling his glass with the remains of a solitary bottle, which beckoned to him from the windowsill. 

            “And what do we think,” he addressed the room, “of our aforementioned newly minted friend?”

            Aramis, who had occupied the entire time prior to this question with a most careful examination of his own nails, lifted his eyes up, but said nothing.

            “Seems like an amiable enough companion, if you ask me,” replied Porthos, shrugging, and investigating the bottle for remains of the wine.

            “A madman!” snapped Aramis, announcing his presence.  “You were so quick to offer him your friendship, Athos, yet it is my personal belief he will get us all rightly killed.”

            “You speak of madmen and being killed, my dear friend,” smiled Athos in response, “as if you are forgetting the company you keep!”

            “How could I?  You remind me by nearly getting yourself killed almost daily!” Aramis gave this statement a jovial tinge, but the look he directed at Athos gave very little doubt as to the fact that he was not, in fact, jesting.

            “I suppose we can’t all be keeping a low profile in the pursuit of Duchesses,” Athos threw the rest of the wine down his gullet.

            “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Porthos, who apparently found this exchange extravagantly amusing, roared with laughter and gave both Athos and Aramis such a Herculean love tap on the back, that his two companions almost flew across the room.

            “Well, I like him quite enough,” concluded Athos, having recovered his balance, and throwing a look at Aramis that went entirely unnoticed by Porthos.

            “Very well then,” said Porthos, wisely, “We shall tolerate this madman, so long as it pleases Athos, and does not enrage Aramis too greatly.  As for me, I am positively impatient to see how well he plays tennis.  I shall reserve judgment till then.”  Porthos took a ceremonious bow and headed for the door. “That balm is working!” he called out over his shoulder as he left, leaving Athos and Aramis to stare at each other across the space of the room. 

            It was several minutes after the last steps of Porthos were heard echoing down the stairs when Aramis finally decided to break the silence that descended upon them with a simple, “I’m going to confession.”

            “Surely, you jest,” Athos responded and looked out the window demonstratively.

            “I’ll decide when I get there.”

            “Why are you angry with me?” Athos turned around and faced his friend, who really did seem on the verge of walking out.  “Is it really that Gascon boy?”

            “The boy of the magical balm, you mean?” Aramis asked with a playful, yet dangerous, smile.

            “Aramis, I say… Could you be…” Athos circled around his friend, looking him, as he passed, up and down, stopping right behind him, his lips almost touching the neck of Aramis, as he finished, “Jealous?”

            “Nonsense!”

            “Good!  I’m glad you say so, because otherwise I would have had to point that out to you myself!”

            “But the way he looks at you!”  Aramis blushed at his own words; he had shown a weakness and was going to pay for it.  Just as he had suspected, the last remark made the usually laconic Athos roar in a fit of laughter.  “Fine, do what you will with him!”

            “Aramis,” Athos had grabbed him by the shoulder, “You are absolutely absurd, and yet incredibly irresistible in your state of absurdity.”  Aramis said nothing, except gave Athos another defiant look.  “And if you keep acting this way, even Porthos will soon figure out something’s not right between us,” he added quietly.

            “Everything’s not right between us,” Aramis sighed, and Athos let him go.

            “If you really thought that, you would not be here.”

            Aramis sat back down and resumed his examination of his fingernails.  Athos momentarily left the room only to return with another bottle.  Evidently, either his servant was not around or else he preferred to not call him.  Aramis appeared to shoot him a quick look from behind his long, black eye lashes.

            “You were right.  I am jealous,” he admitted quietly. 

            “I have no one but you,” Athos said, simply, and refilled his glass.

            “I know that, and the truth of it hurts,” Aramis dropped his head onto his hands and waited.  Whatever reply he was waiting for was apparently not coming, so he resumed, “I’ll break things off with her.  I told you I would.”

            “I am not interested in this boy.  Not like that.”

            “I don’t love her the way I love you, not even remotely, I couldn’t.”

            “Besides, he’s far too young for me.  I already feel dirty enough for corrupting the likes of you.”

            “She is just useful, that’s all.”

            “And you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.”

            “And you taste like Heaven.”

            The last two phrases were unleashed at approximately at the same time, bringing these two soliloquies to a screeching halt.

            “I am?” asked Aramis, incredulously.

            “I do now, do I?” asked Athos, trying to suppress a snicker.  In the momentary silence that followed, one could hear the sound of the church bell tolling, announcing that it was about time for the two men to part.  Their eyes locked, and it seemed to them both that they could almost feel the other’s pulse, so loudly did their hearts seem to pound with each tolling of the bell.  The pupils of Aramis’ eyes were so large that they seemed to take over his entire iris, and Athos thought again that one of these days he’d be likely to drown in them.  As the bell stopped, no one had moved.

            “To Hell with it,” said Aramis, pulling his lover into a kiss of such ferocity that their teeth seemed to knock before their tongues could find each other.  Aramis had caused them both to topple onto the wooden floor and sat straddling Athos as if he was about to gallop off with him.

            “Whatever happened to allowing my wound to heal?” the latter asked with a wicked grin.

            “If you’re healthy enough to duel, you’re healthy enough for this!”

            “Only because I want you desperately.”

            At that, Aramis growled like an animal, and pulled Athos by the hair, forcing his head back, exposing his throat.  “Tell me how desperately you want me,” he purred into his ear.

            “Ouch,” was all Athos replied, matter-of-factly.

            “You’re going to make me hurt you again, aren’t you?”

            Athos had meanwhile allowed his hand to snake between the trousers and the heated flesh of the behind of Aramis, and gave it a copious and meaningful grab.

            “Yes, Aramis.  You know how I simply cannot _abide_ pain,” he whispered hoarsely.

            The next few minutes were a bit of a blur for Aramis, as his mind seemed to hover somewhere between the primal urges to crush and destroy and making violent and frenzied love to his friend, which, in essence, were all the same at that moment.  His own clothes seemed to fly off, and the clothes of Athos lay in rags underneath the table, and after all, it was true:  he did taste like Heaven.  Trying to force the last jealous thoughts about the Gascon upstart from the recesses of his mind, he drove hard into his friend, heedless of any of the precautions he would have taken earlier, and yet, in the eyes of Athos he saw no signal to stop, only deep brown pools of endless desire.  And so he claimed him, again and again, until the voice in his head had stopped speaking completely.

            As for Athos, one could not attest in any great amount of detail to the exact content of his thoughts, but the one thing he said to Aramis, as he gently extricated himself from beneath his friend’s sweaty and naked form, was “I wish you did not have to tear the last of my clothes.  I sent Grimaud on an errand to Blois, and now I’m afraid I shall have to spend the rest of the day in the nude.”


End file.
